


War Paint

by bellap74



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-21
Updated: 2011-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-23 22:06:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellap74/pseuds/bellap74
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade has a fascination with a certain feature of Watson's.</p><p>Written for Kink Bingo prompt - tattoos/tattooing.</p><p>** There is no self-harm in this fic nor is it discussed but the concept is referred to **</p>
            </blockquote>





	War Paint

Lestrade knew he shouldn’t really be so fascinated, it wasn’t something you could brush off as casual - well, the initial enquiry maybe but the request for proof was different. It was the standard procedure in his job but this wasn’t remotely linked to any case, it was just his own damn curiosity over all things Watson. He’d got the answer to most of his other questions -  _yes_ , John was single and great company and  _no_ , he didn’t have Sherlock’s problem with authority figures. He was 90% certain that  _yeah_ , John was definitely gay and  _no, thank fucking God no_ , he wasn’t involved with that bloody -.

“There you go,” John interrupted his thoughts, wandering back into the room with a towel around his waist and holding it raised against one thigh. He turned and stretched his leg out carefully, displaying the somewhat muted colours of his tattoo.

“For Queen and country?” Lestrade muttered quietly and licked his bottom lip before approaching.

“I never quite fancied the bulldog-wrapped-in-a-flag look.”

“Traditional bloke eh?”

John smiled and then seemed to stop himself, his lips twisting inwards as his hand let the towel drop back into place. “No,” he said and looked away, “would’ve been a lot easier if I was, but there you go. You get a lot more leeway when you’re a medic but it has it’s challenges”

  
Watching him carefully, Lestrade's mind jumped -  _oh, no, no,_  he thought eagerly,  _I saw your eyes then - you gave me something, dropped a clue as quickly as that towel._  He tried for casual though, shrugged and sat down on the sofa, splaying a hand flat on the seat beside him. “Contrary to what Sherlock’s told you,” he held a hand up to silence John’s interruption, “whatever he’s said - or called me; I’m not the copy book Plod either, you know.”

John just stared at him in response, face neutral as he hesitated. He turned his back then seemed to decide, walking slowly over and lifting his leg, planted his foot up next to Lestrade’s hand and looked him dead in the eye. “Do you have ink then?”

“No,” Lestrade held his gaze and moved his hand firmly to cover John’s foot, “but you do.”

“I  _do_. Sherlock ignored it in favour of the scars,” John said, raising the towel again as Lestrade’s fingers reached his ankle.

“Well he’s a bloody fool considering he’s a genius.”

They didn’t speak again for a few minutes, tension making them both wary but caught in a strange dance that needed to resolve itself. Eventually John muttered, “Greg,” quietly as Lestrade slid his hand up his leg, within touching distance of the coloured insignia on his thigh.

  
“Does it bother you? The scars I mean.”

“No.” John huffed out a heavy breath and steadied himself automatically by dropping a hand down onto Lestrade’s shoulder. “I’m always wary though, I mean, well - Sherlock says-.”

“A lot of stuff,” Lestrade snorted smiling up at him, “he talks sense and shit in bundles and yet...” He shook his head and then lowered it, looking up once more to meet John’s eyes before pressing a slow, sucking kiss to the centre of his tattoo, “He’s never once mentioned that you have this.”

“Oh... I thought that’s why you asked.”

“No,” Lestrade shook his head again but this time kept his mouth against the warm heat of Watson’s leg, feeling the golden hair tickle the tip of his nose. “I was curious about the alleged self-harm to be honest.”

“The  _what_?” John’s voice raised slightly and he almost pulled his leg away but long fingers still curled around his ankle and anchored him in place. “What the hell has he been saying now?”

Lestrade laughed and licked a thick wet trail across the waving flag on John’s skin, letting his hand slide underneath the raised thigh and upwards to the curve of his arse. “He said you had a tattoo...in Sherlock language. Only it’s Friday and I’m shattered because he won’t help me like a logical sodding person, so I’ve got a maniac with a kink for fur and footless women, he keeps going on about Percy fucking Shelley and -  _ugh_. Look, I asked Sherlock if it was all right to invite you for a beer-.”

“As if he was my dad you mean?” John tutted, “See, you don’t help yourself by … _pandering_ , to his sense of importance you know. Why not go the whole hog and ask Mrs Hudson if I’m allowed out to play?”

Sighing, Lestrade looked up, “I’m a bloody good copper, John. I don’t have some surreal cyber reptilian brain like - look, I just wasn’t sure if I was reading things right. You might not be - interested.”

“In a beer -- or in you?”

“Either - both, please.” Lestrade winced and dropped his head, “I just didn’t want to make a complete twat of myself.”

“So you  _asked Sherlock_?”

“Yeah, I know - it’s been a long week, my logic’s a bit off.”

John chuckled and pulled his leg back, held the towel tight around himself and sat down on the sofa, leaning further than necessary into Lestrade’s space. “So you asked him for permission to proposition me and he said what? That I was a masochistic ex-squaddie, slashing away at myself in post traumatic stress?”

“No, if I recall,” Lestrade said slowly, his hands working their way beneath John’s towel and once again exposing his thighs, “he said to ‘always be cautious with those who carry scars especially self inflicted badges of distress depicted in line with ancient custom’.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Don’t worry, I asked him.” Lestrade smiled, his thumb pressing in and over the unfurled banner reading ‘Queen and Country’, “He said you definitely hadn’t told your psychiatrist about the legitimised self-harm to your good leg.”

“Legitimised self - my tattoo?” John sighed, rage and disbelief fading instantly into familiar resignation in his eyes.

He shook his head and dropped a hand down onto Lestrade’s which currently lay tracing along the black outlines of a lion, “Well I suppose I should be grateful it didn’t put you off.”

“I think he hoped it would,” Lestrade grinned and leaned in across John’s chest, steadying himself and bringing his mouth close to smiling lips, open in anticipation. “But something’s broken on his radar.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have a massive kink for tattoos and he didn’t even spot it.”

“Oh, really?” John nodded and licked his lips, let his eyes close lightly as Lestrade moved closer still and then felt that insistent mouth on his own, working against him and pushing in. Fingers still stroked against his thigh as if re-painting the colours of his skin art and Lestrade kissed harder, faster, as he moved to straddle him, the towel pushed aside by a careful knee. John’s finger’s pulled at the button’s of Lestrade’s shirt and opened it to expose smooth, warm skin and hair to tug at on the way to a nipple twist. The tongue in his mouth withdrew and Lestrade pulled away slightly, a groan bitten back as John’s hand moved down to his crotch and cupped his hardening cock through the taut black denim.

“I knew you could eclipse that bastard,” he said and nuzzled John’s jaw, “you’re a lot more fascinating.”

John snorted and bit gently on his earlobe, “You say that, and you haven’t even seen the tattoo on my arse.”

“ _Yet_ ,” Lestrade said dragging his fingers firmly down John’s chest and watching his eyes roll, dipping over tense abdomen and wrapping around his clearly interested cock. He stroked it upwards firmly and felt himself throb at the moan of appreciation, the heat against his palm making him feel overdressed albeit in just jeans and an open shirt. "I haven't seen it  _yet_ ," he repeated, sliding his fist up and over John's erection and then back down fast, repeating the move again with a grin, “this investigation’s only just started.”  



End file.
